


found in translation

by ichidou



Series: broken glass [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-14
Packaged: 2018-02-08 18:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1951791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichidou/pseuds/ichidou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wash doesn't find it so hard to understand Maine, once he gets the hang of it.</p><p>A look at Wash and Maine's partnership from the beginning of Project Freelancer through its aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	found in translation

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write something like this for ages but it was [Anne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anneapocalypse) who inspired me to sit down and do it. Thanks for the bits of inspiration you lent to my interpretation of Maine, and for helping me edit.
> 
> This is in some ways a prologue to an AU I've been planning to write for years. The AU in question is a different take on S7/S8 and focuses entirely on Wash and Meta, so I wanted to write out my headcanon for what their partnership was like back in Freelancer and how Wash learned to understand him so I'd have it handy. 7000 words later, here we are.

The first time you see the giant in your room, you think there’s been a mistake.

You back out of the room, in fact, and go to check the nameplate. This can’t be _your_ room. There’s no way someone that big shares with someone else. You’ve gone and walked into the wrong room and now you’re gonna have to stammer out an apology and it’ll be awkward.

Only no, that’s your name on the panel just outside. It’s not your name, not really, but nobody here’s gonna call you David. No, you’re _Agent Washington_ now, and _Agent Washington_ has a room with _Agent Maine_.

Who’s, like, six foot ten and staring at you.

You wait for him to say something.

It doesn’t come.

“Hi,” you manage, feebly. You step back into the room and it slides shut behind you. Maine raises an eyebrow. He gives you a once-over, not bothering to hide it. You get the feeling a guy his size doesn’t really need to hide it. Jeez, he’s like, _all muscle_. No wonder he’s here. Must be the team heavy. You suddenly feel inadequate. In, like, everything.

Right. Introductions. “I’m Wash. Uh-- Washington. Which. You know. From the sign.”

Maine snorts.

He still doesn’t say anything. It’s a change from the other Freelancers you’ve met -- christ, that guy New York (“Nah, man, just York, it’s not like there’s two of me!”) could talk the ears off corn. He’s alright to be around, for the short while you’ve been here, but it’s overwhelming. It’s _all_ overwhelming.

And now you’re rooming with a behemoth. God, and you thought North Dakota was a big guy. He’s got nothing on Maine.

You toss your duffle bag on the free bed. Maine’s half of the room is already a mess. You wonder how long he’s been here. Project Freelancer’s been in the recruitment phase for a while, you know, but it seems like some of these guys have been here for a while. Girls, too -- seems like Carolina’s running the place. (No North or South on her. You wonder what that’s about.)

Maine’s still staring at you. You can feel his eyes on your back as you start unpacking, pulling your clothes out of your bag. Like this wasn’t awkward enough already. “Uh… so where’re you from?” you ask.

You don’t turn. Later you’ll realize that’s the problem, but right now it just confuses you when Maine grumbles something you can’t understand. You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He’s scowling at you -- and okay, he’s not six- _ten_ , but it fucking feels like it when a guy with that much muscle’s not happy. “Sorry, I--”

Maine’s not listening anymore. You shrink back automatically, and feel like a goddamn coward for it, but the guy’s so alien you feel like you’re staring down an Elite. He growls something vague in -- what was that, Russian? -- and stalks out of the room.

You can’t help but feel like you did something wrong.

===

It’s a couple of days before you figure out what.

You mention to a couple of people that Maine doesn’t seem to like you. Nobody’s surprised, but they’re not helpful, either. York says Maine doesn’t like _anybody_ , which you consider, but Maine seems to tolerate Carolina. Connecticut says he’ll come around once he gets to know you, which you think is a nice thought but not very helpful considering you have to live with the guy. South Dakota thinks he’s an asshole. South, you discover, thinks _everyone_ is an asshole, including you, and you just met her five minutes ago.

Her brother North Dakota is more helpful. He tells you to drop the Dakota.

“Maine just doesn’t talk,” he says with a shrug.

“But he _can_ , right?”

“Oh, yeah. Heard him swearing in Russian after training the other day. Or maybe it was Polish. Not really up on my languages, sorry.”

“Wait, but he _does_ know English, right?” North looks like he’s seriously thinking about the question for a minute. “ _Right?_ ”

North laughs. “‘Course he does. Come on, Wash, it’s the universal language of the UNSC. I told you, he just doesn’t _like_ talking. Don’t act like he’s mute and you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, but how am I supposed to communicate with him? We’re supposed to pair up in training exercises!” You had a good freakout over that this morning when you heard the news. York was completely unhelpful -- lucky jerk was paired with Florida. If anybody had a fitting name, it was Florida. You’d never met anyone more _sunny_ than Florida.

“Like I said.” North rolls his eyes. “He can understand you fine, Wash. Just treat him like you would anybody else.”

You think that sounds way too easy. And in a way, it is.

What’s surprising is that it works.

===

You don’t see Maine again until it’s nearly time for dinner. Right now you’re on a different schedule, since you’re new, but you’ll be syncing up in a couple of days and seeing each other more often. For now it’s been a blessing, but you still run into each other when you head to your bunk for R&R.

It’s been, uh, tense. Tense is a word. Another word is _unbearable_. You sigh, then draw yourself up. _Screw it_ , you think. North said to act normal. You can do normal.

...You can _try_ to do normal.

“Hey,” you say as you come in. Maine grunts. He’s probably in his second or third set of pushups by now. Despite that you’re all training constantly, he seems to have a need to do it even while on break. You figure there has to be a reason he’s built like a goddamn tank, and this is it.

You take your time doing what you actually came here for -- changing into your fatigues, getting your shit together -- but instead of ignoring him like you’ve done every other time you’ve been in the room with him, you pause before heading for the door.

“Hey. Maine.” Breathe, David. He’s not gonna punch your lights out. You hope. “You want anything from the mess hall?”

Maine pauses in his pushups. Shit. You shoulda gone with a yes or no question. Normal, North said. This is normal. He looks at you, and for the first time you manage to look past the height and the muscles and actually see his _face_.

He looks skeptical.

 _Oh_ , you think. _That’s his answer._

He might not like _talking_ , but that doesn’t mean Maine can’t _say_ anything.

So you reply. You say, “I’m heading down there now and I know you’re not slotted for dinner for another hour, so do you want me to bring you anything?”

Maine still looks like he doesn’t quite believe you’re actually talking to him. Not that you can blame him. You’ve ignored him for like a week. You feel like a moron for it. Maybe he should just punch you and get it over with. “I-I mean, since I’ll already be there, and all,” you stammer out. “It’s not any trouble.”

Maine huffs. His eyes flick to the bedside table on his side of the room. He’s got a clock on there, a datapad that’s seemed oddly small in his hands every time you’ve seen him use it, and-- oh. His canteen.

He always comes back from dinner with two bottles of water.

“Yeah, sure. Two bottles, right?”

Maine nods. Then, apparently deciding the conversation’s done, he goes back to his pushups.

===

You don’t mention it at dinner. It feels disingenuous to brag about something as simple as figuring out how to communicate with a teammate -- something you should have figured out on day one. It’s none of your business _why_ Maine doesn’t like talking, all that matters is that you’ve gotta adapt to it and deal with it, and you can do that. Might take a while, but you’ll manage.

You don’t plan on bugging him when you come back from dinner, bottles in hand. You figure he’s had enough conversation for the day. So you’re surprised when he offers something of his own.

“Thanks.”

You smile. “Anytime.”

===

From there it’s easy.

Sure, there are times you fuck up. That goes without saying. And Maine does punch you -- in armor, on the training floor, and once he even knocks you straight off the shitty couch in the common room when you change the channel to the wrong station. (You _thought_ he wanted to watch the latest Grifball match. It’s not your fault you didn’t know his soap was on.)

But you get along, too, better than just about anyone else does with him. The only other person Maine partners with is Carolina -- she’s the only one who can take on his brute strength and it’s something else, watching her dance around his heavy punches and outmaneuver him -- and she never treats him any different than anyone else. You figure it’s why Maine respects her.

As far as everyone else goes, though, it’s not hard to figure out why Maine doesn’t _bother_ talking. You like York fine but he’s the kind of guy whose personality either clicks with yours or doesn’t, and he sure as hell doesn’t click with Maine. You’ve heard your fair share of growling in Russian about that. At least, you think it’s about that. You ask for a translation, once. Maine grunts out a “fuck you.” You’re still not sure if that was a translation or a response.

It’s the same with most of the others: Maine either outright dislikes them or merely tolerates them. Not that you blame him. Aside from you, no one really makes an effort to befriend him. And none of you are here to _make friends_ , you know that, but… he’s your partner. He’s the guy you run drills with every day and he’s the guy they send you with when you get training missions to the sim bases. You listen to his snores every night as you lay awake, exhausted and sleepless. (Maine never has trouble sleeping. You envy him.)

===

You’re not really sure when you went from watching Maine’s facial expressions to the tilt of his helmet. Once you get your armor you all spend a lot of time in it just to adjust, but some take to it more than others. Maine’s one of them. It feels like you hardly ever see his face anymore.

But there’s something about the way he moves his head, when he’s in armor. The way the light reflects off the gold dome of his faceplate -- maybe you’re seeing things, but sometimes you could swear it looks like a scowl, even before the growling starts. Once, after a particularly good training session (in which he beat the shit out of you), you even think you see a smile.

Finally you realize that you don’t have to see what face he’s making anymore. Somehow, he’s just as expressive behind the visor as he is outside it. You watch for the rise and fall of his shoulders to gauge his mood (tense when he’s angry, loose when he’s not) and the way he motions with his hands when he wants something (you remember all the hand signals from basic and you’re surprised when you realize Maine uses them all the time), and all of it says more than Maine ever could with his voice.

Maine’s quick to correct you when you’re wrong, too. There are still times you misinterpret what he’s trying to say. But you do your best. And you’d like to think that _partners_ eventually turns into _friends_. Not the same kind of friendship you have with North and York, maybe, the kind where you hang out with them whenever you’re free and shoot the shit. But Maine’s got your back.

And you’ve got his.

===

You’re on another mission to one of the simulation bases today. You’ve heard rumors that they’re phasing out this part of the program soon, that things are going to ramp up. You’ve heard something about equipment. Carolina will be up first, of course, Number One has its privileges, but you’re in the top squad. Shouldn’t be too far behind.

Florida’s your pilot today. You’re not sure what planet you’re on. Not allowed to know, probably. Used to be weird, never knowing where you were at first, but you’ve gotten used to it since you got here.

You don’t know what today’s mission is yet. _That_ took more getting used to. The Director says it’s to judge how well you adapt on the field. So far your scores haven’t been too high. You’re better at planning ahead and forming a strategy ahead of time, not improvising. Not like you’ve got a choice, though.

You glance at Maine. He doesn’t look worried. He never is. Maine’s definition of “improvising” is “punch everyone who gets in the way.” It tends to work.

“All right, fellas,” Florida calls over the intercom. “Would you like to hear what your mission is today?”

Maine huffs something indistinct. As far as you can tell, Maine doesn’t _dislike_ Florida, he just doesn’t know what to make of him. To be fair, you’re never really sure what to make of him either. “Sure,” you call back.

“Great! Because I’m just about to tell you!”

You wait.

Florida doesn’t say anything.

“...Uh, are you going to tell us?” you ask.

“Good question. I seem to be dramatically pausing for some reason.”

“Um… okay.” You exchange a look through your visor with Maine. You don’t have to imagine the look on his face; you’ve seen it plenty of times. Florida regularly weirds you all out. “So what are we doing?”

“You’ve got two bombs to collect, gentlemen, one from each team. Now, the simulation soldiers believe it’s a deadly weapon that can kill their entire squad if it’s set off--”

“You just said we’re collecting _bombs_.”

“Well, that’s why you’ll just have to disarm them!” Florida sounds downright cheerful about the idea. “Once you’ve got them, extraction is at the center of the bridge. Don’t you worry, it’ll all make sense when you get there.”

“So it’s a hit and run,” you say.

“Kill?” Maine grunts.

“Nope! Not unless you want your rank to go down,” Florida says. “Why, I’m running the twins out here next week. I mean, I don’t _mind_ flying them all the way here to fight a bunch of dead soldiers, but it just doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

Florida laughs. Maine grumbles but doesn’t voice any further protests. It might be easier if you could just kill the troopers -- and more realistic, considering the kind of missions you’re practicing for -- but privately you’re glad Project Freelancer frowns on it. You still feel unsettled every time you point your gun at another human being. You signed up to fight aliens, not other people.

“All right, boys, here we are!” Florida calls. The metal bars keeping you in your seats release, and you grab your battle rifle. It’s loaded with the same lockdown paint you use in training. Shouldn’t do any permanent damage against the sim troops, just enough to keep them out of the way while you complete your objective.

Maine opts for an assault rifle. You have a feeling he’ll just end up mowing down anyone who gets in his way.

You’re pretty sure you’d be dead if it wasn’t for the armor to take the impact of the jump from the dropship. These bases are set in one of those alien structures you see sometimes, all straight lines and right angles and glowing lights, but all you can see is the thousand-foot drop on either side of the bridge and you don’t want to think about it.

A couple snowflakes hit your visor and melt. There are flickers on your motion tracker. The Reds and Blues probably heard the dropship coming, but you’d been so high up when you jumped that they couldn’t see you approach.

You swing your rifle off your back. You look at Maine. You can tell he’s grinning behind his visor. He loves missions like this. The sim troopers are never a match for any of you. Then again, they’re not meant to be. It’s all about the objective.

Someone’s firing at you. You duck behind one of the walls in the center of the bridge. Not much cover out here. You’ll have to move quick. There’s gunfire behind you, too.

“Red team first,” you say. “Distract them. I’ll find the bomb.”

Maine blinks his indicator light and moves out of cover as soon as there’s a break in the Reds’ attack. You spot a ramp off to the side and move down it, onto a bridge below the main one. There’s gunfire above but you can hear the Reds crying out in pain. Maine’s handling it.

You reach the end of the bridge and spot a Red to your right, stationed just below a gravlift; he looks like he’s not sure whether or not to go help his buddies with Maine. You shoot him in the chest. The paint takes effect instantly and he drops his gun. You head back down the hallway and move up into the left side of the base. You can hear yelling between the gunfire.

“Captain-- Captain, what do we do?!”

“Just keep shooting! It has to wear off someti-- _augh_ \--”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” you mutter. The paint takes a minute to loosen, minimum, and given that Maine’s got a whole assault rifle full of ammo they’re probably covered in it. Those soldiers aren’t going anywhere.

You spot the bomb at the back of the base. “Found it. Maine, get over here and cover me.”

His indicator light blinks again. This is how most of your missions go -- he doesn’t bother responding, he just flashes his standard-issue acknowledgment light to answer you if you’re in the middle of a firefight, or growls something in your direction. You prefer the light. Sometimes his growls are hard to make out.

You’re pretty sure the area’s clear but you keep a lookout until Maine joins you. He’s got a few fresh scratches on his armor -- they must have gotten his shields out. You tilt your helmet at him. “They really put up a fight, huh?”

Maine grunts at you. You take it as a _hurry the fuck up_. You smile behind your visor and bend to start working on the bomb. This isn’t _technically_ your field but you’ve done enough work with explosives to have a good idea of it. UNSC bombs are standard-issue, you can just pop off the cap on the bottom to arm and disarm them, but of course you don’t have any tools with you so you’ve got to be careful prying it off.

You hear gunfire behind you but don’t look. Maine can take care of it. You’re more concerned about the bomb you’ve popped open. It’s primed to detonate, with no wait time; one wrong move and you’ll blow yourself up.

No pressure or anything.

All you have to do is remove the fuse. You reach in. Maine’s firing again but you tune him out. You slip your fingers around it and pull.

The fuse comes out.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding.

That’s when an explosion goes off above your head. Maine curses in Russian and starts firing again. You grab the cap for the bomb as shots starts ringing around you. You dart for cover and start screwing it back on.

“The Blues have a sniper,” you say. “Why do I always forget the Blues have a sniper?”

Maine gives you a look. _Because you’re an idiot._

“Shut up.”

“Rockets,” Maine grunts. You realize that was the explosion a moment ago. You curse.

There’s not much you can do against a rocket launcher besides hope they run out of ammo, but you’re scored on time and camping over here isn’t going to win you any points with the Director. Plus you’ve got to bring the bombs back, which means you’ve got to trade your battle rifle for your pistol so you can carry this one under your arm.

You think over your options. There’s the gravlift on the other side of the base; chances are it’s powerful enough to carry you to the far side of the chasm but with a thousand-foot drop at stake, you’re not eager to test it. You’ve seen some of these gravlifts fuck up before, and _everybody’s_ heard the story about Oklahoma. Poor guy was on a mission to some adrift station in orbit over a gas giant, ran into a gravlift, and fell just short of the platform on the other side. They never even found the body.

So that leaves the bridge. You can either go over and be exposed every time you so much as raise your heads, or the secondary one beneath and have no cover at all. Might give you the element of surprise, though...

“You’re sure the Reds are out?” you ask.

Maine snarls at you.

“Hey, I had to ask!” You look out at the bridge again. _Screw it_ , you think. “We’ll use the secondary bridge. I can’t run with the bomb--”

Maine gives you a look.

“It’s heavy!”

_Dumbass._

“Do you want to carry it?”

You get a growl for that. _Fuck no_.

“Then _cover me_ so we don’t get blown up.”

Another growl. _Fine._

“Move on three. Sync?”

Maine flashes an acknowledgement. On three you move and more sniper shots ring out around you, but whoever they have over there either can’t shoot for shit or you’re too quick for them to get a hit on you. Another rocket flies over your head as you dart down the ramp and onto the secondary bridge. There’s a Blue on the far side but Maine takes care of it with a couple quick bursts from his assault rifle and you move across the bridge quickly. (The damn thing is _translucent_. You try not to look through.)

“Head right,” you say when you reach the end. The bases are usually symmetrical -- the Blues probably have their bomb set up in the same place the Reds did. If they have an ounce of sense, they’ll have primed it and set it to detonate as soon as you get close. But these bombs are keyed to their teams -- if all members are registered as down, it won’t automatically fire. You hope.

You spot movement on your motion tracker and swing your pistol around to see a Blue coming down the opposite ramp. He’s only got a shotgun -- easy to take him out with a headshot. You don’t waste bullets on chest shots now that you’re short a hand; you can’t reload unless you drop the bomb and you can’t risk that in the middle of a firefight. 

Behind you, Maine charges up the ramp, firing wildly. You hear screaming, and the deafening blasts of a sniper rifle, before you see a rifle go sailing past you and down into the chasm. Maine probably grabbed it out of the soldier’s hand. You’ve seen him do it before.

There’s still the rocket launcher to contend with, though, and you hear another blast go off as you move up the ramp. Icicles fall from the ceiling and shatter around you. You spot the bomb sitting right there. _Shit_. So much for symmetrical.

The Blue with the rocket launcher’s at the far end of the room. You count three soldiers on the ground; the rest of the squad’s down. 

“Shit! Shit! What do I do?!” The last Blue swings the rocket launcher back and forth at you and Maine, desperately trying to figure out which of you to shoot. His aim settles on you.

“Oh, son of a--”

There’s no time to think. You drop the bomb and roll off the ramp to avoid the rocket. It goes sailing across the chasm towards the other base. You hear Maine growling and shooting, then the Blue’s screams. The rocket launcher follows the sniper rifle into the abyss a minute later.

“Bomb,” Maine grunts. You haul yourself up and grab the first bomb again. With the Blues down, the second one should be safe to disarm. You crouch to examine it.

It’s ticking. Your eyes widen behind your visor. You don’t have time to disarm it -- there could be fifteen seconds on the fuse, or five. One wrong move, and you’ll blow both of you up. Training or not, the number of Freelancers who have died on these missions is no joke.

So much for getting a high score.

You look at Maine -- you realize he already knows. He knew the second he said _bomb_. You nod. You grab the first bomb and scramble out of the way. Maine picks up the second and throws it into the chasm.

You hear the explosion not three seconds later.

Your heart is pounding in your chest. You weren’t actually sure it was live until just then. Even with all the Freelancers who have died -- well, there’s still a part of you that thinks _it’ll never happen to me_. _It’ll never happen in my squad_. Yet here you are just having scraped away from death on a training mission.

“This job is fucking nuts,” you mutter.

Maine huffs. _Tell me about it._

He offers you a hand. You pull yourself up and secure the bomb under your arm. You flick on your radio. “Florida, we’re ready for extraction.”

“Copy that, boys! See you in sixty.”

===

You’re both chewed out for not returning the second bomb, but it’s Maine who’s downranked for it. You can’t help but feel guilty for it. If you’d just been faster -- if you’d had the skills to defuse it more quickly, then maybe…

It was a joint mission. You don’t feel right getting the credit for it while Maine gets blamed. He took out most of the soldiers. All you did was fumble with the bomb and try to keep up.

You catch up with Maine after your debriefing’s over. “Hey-- look, about in there, I’m--”

Maine punches you in the stomach. You’re so surprised that you topple to the ground. If you’d been expecting it you probably could have taken it -- you’ve gotten pretty used to the way Maine punches -- but your armor takes the hit and you’re left sprawled on the floor staring up at him.

Maine stares down at you. “Even,” he grunts.

You blink. “What?”

He gives you a look like _why do I have to put up with a moron like you for my partner._ “Even.”

You stare back up at him, and finally it clicks. _Now we’re even_ , he means. A smile forms on your lips. Maine’s never been one to hold a grudge but -- well, you’re paranoid. And it’s good to have the reassurance.

“Yeah, okay,” you say. You rub your stomach. “You didn’t have to _punch_ me, though.”

Maine snorts. _Yeah I did._

===

You’ve run dozens of missions together, but you never see Maine get _really_ hurt until the real missions start.

Carolina doesn’t tell you about Maine’s injury until you’re halfway back to the _Mother of Invention._ He’s on a different dropship but the second your Pelican reaches the landing bay you’re already out of your seat and heading for the medical ward.

By the time you get there he’s in surgery. The medics don’t let you in, but there’s an observation window to the side. Everything on this ship seems to have an observation window. Even the locker rooms.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been there when York comes to find you. Hours, probably. You’re exhausted from the mission -- you jumped off a 110-story building today, for fuck’s sake -- but it doesn’t seem to matter right now.

“How is he?” York asks, coming up beside you.

“Hey,” you say, wearily. “Not good. He was shot in the throat. The medic said even if he survives, he’ll probably never talk again.”

“Shit.” York peers through the window. They’ve been trying to get the shrapnel out of Maine’s throat for hours, but with so much there -- and so much blood loss at stake -- it’s not a pretty sight. “Guess it could be worse. Maine never did talk much.”

You glare at him. “What, so that means he deserves this?”

“Hey, I didn’t say that! I’m just sayin’ -- y’know, it’s lucky! Out of everybody this coulda happened to, it happens to the one guy who doesn’t talk in the first place.”

“Right, and I’m sure _you’re_ doing just fine because you’ve got an eye to spare. Not like you needed the other one, right?”

“The hell, Wash.” York’s tone drops colder than you’ve ever heard it. “That’s uncalled for, man.”

Maybe it was, but you’re dead on your feet and you don’t have the energy to put up with bullshit. York and Maine have been at odds for months and the grenade just made it worse and you’re sick of dealing with it. “Then don’t call this lucky, or karma, or _whatever_. It’s not like he aimed that grenade at you and he never asked for this.”

“Alright, alright, I get it. Jesus. Sorry.” York holds up his hands, pacifying, and you know the apology is just his way of getting out the argument but you’re too tired to call him out on it. You exhale and lean forward, letting the window take your weight as you watch the medics pry another bullet out of Maine’s throat.

“I just-- I don’t want to see _anybody_ get hurt,” you say. “Not like this.”

York tugs his helmet off. The scars are still healing; you’re pretty sure he should still be wearing gauze. He scratches at his cheek idly. “Don’t I know it,” he says, with a lopsided, empty smile.

He reaches over and clasps your shoulder. You can’t really feel it that well through the armor, but the gesture’s enough. “And hey, you’ve heard those rumors about AIs, right? Maybe they’ll give one to Maine. Help him talk.”

You blink. You hadn’t thought of that. You’re still not sure if you’re _really_ getting A.I.s -- nothing’s been announced so everybody’s talking about it -- but everyone in the top squad’s been assigned equipment, and warned not to use it without a pipeline back to command so F.I.L.S.S. could calibrate it and keep you from getting yourselves killed. “...Huh. Yeah, maybe.”

“So, hey. Keep your chin up. It’ll be okay.” York squeezes your shoulder and steps back. “I gotta jet before the docs try and lock me back up. Think they might be pissed I slipped out earlier.”

You snort. “Yeah, go on.”

“You get some rest too, okay? We need you to keep an eye on the rest of us.” York winks and puts his helmet back on.

You know he’s joking, but something twists in your gut all the same.

===

You thought it was hard sleeping before. It’s impossible to fall asleep without Maine’s snoring in your ears.

It’s not like he hasn’t been away before, on missions or even injured. Maybe it’s just that he’s gone for so _long_ , this time. Night after night you come back to an empty room and stare at the ceiling and wonder how he’s doing.

It’s weeks before you see Maine again. _No visitors_ , the Director says. _Your… loyalty to Agent Maine is admirable_ , the Counselor adds, _but your training is more important_.

When he gets released, Sigma is already implanted.

By then you’ve met Delta, and listened to York’s endless griping about him, so you expect Sigma to be more of the same. Like different iterations of the same computer program. They’re supposed to be copies, after all.

But they couldn’t be more different. Sigma bombards you with questions. What’s your name? No, your _real_ name. Where are you from? Where did you serve before Project Freelancer? What was it like there? What was it like back home?

You’re not sure what to make of him. “Does he always talk so much?” you ask.

Maine grumbles, and you’re relieved to find that you can still read him as easily as before. _Never shuts up._

“I apologize if my queries have bothered you, Agent Washington. I’m merely curious--”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Later, okay? Let me talk to Maine.” You look up at your reflection in the domed helmet. “Are you sure you’re okay to fight again? I know the medics cleared you, but--”

Maine huffs. _Shut up._

“Agent Maine is more than ready to return to active duty, Agent Washington,” Sigma chimes in. “We have a training session this morning to test how well we’ve integrated.” The A.I. blinks up at his partner. “I believe Agent Maine would like you to watch.”

“Oh-- uh, yeah, sure. I’m not busy.” You can’t help but stumble over your words, because it’s _weird_ watching Sigma say the things you can see Maine “saying.” You’re so used to seeing what he means in headtilts and handmotions that it’s jarring hearing actual _words_ come out. Maine might not be the one speaking, but Sigma is his voice, now. You suppose he was always meant to be.

“Excellent. We look forward to showing you just what we can do.” Sigma’s smile is a fiery flicker. “Oh, and I believe Agent Maine had something he wanted to give you…?”

Maine punches you in the chest. “ _Ow!_ What the hell was that for?!”

Maine’s rumbles are a laugh. _For worrying so much. Dumbass._

“Asshole.”

===

Things pick up, after that. You’re sent out after the Insurrectionists. CT goes missing. Maine gets cleared for the mission to get her back. You don’t think Maine was ever an ODST, but he climbs into the drop pod like he’s done it a hundred times. You give him a look. He shrugs. You decide to ask him about it later.

You don’t talk, after that mission. No one does.

===

You’re not sure when Maine’s headaches start. One night you find him sitting on his bunk and clutching at his head. You ask Sigma what’s wrong.

“It’s just a headache,” Sigma assures you. “Most agents suffer from them post-implantation. Your friends Agent York and Agent North may have spoken of it.”

“Is he gonna be okay?” you ask. You don’t reach for him. You learned that one the hard way that time you had to wake Maine from a nightmare. He’s not big on being touched.

“It will pass soon,” Sigma says. “Don’t worry, Agent Washington. We’ll go to medical if they get any worse.”

“If you say so.” You peer down at Maine. “Just ask if you need anything, okay?”

“We will,” Sigma replies.

Years later, you wonder if there was anything you could have done, if you’d noticed how much Maine was struggling with Sigma. If there was anything you could have done to stop him. But you barely see Maine after that. He’s either in medical dealing with headaches or in training to block out the pain. And you’re too wrapped up in the knowledge that you’re about to get your own A.I. to see what’s coming.

===

You wish they’d turn the sirens off. Your head hurts enough as it is.

You remember--

( you remember everything you remember too much you can’t tell anyone you can’t _say anything_ they kept asking questions and you didn’t answer you didn’t tell them you kept quiet but you know you _know_ and you feel like you’re about to break apart )

North and South were here, just a few minutes ago. They left. Something about-- _her_. Texas.

_Once they find Texas, they’ll bring her back. Or she’ll come back on her own._

_(_ no no no no no what are you doing you have to go help her we can’t let her die again i don’t want her to get hurt i tried i tried so many times i just kept failing wash david please we can’t let anything happen to her _)_

“Shut up,” you mumble. You clutch your head again. This isn’t real, none of this is real. This is just another simulation. It’ll end and then you can go back to the beginning, before it all went wrong.

“Security escort to deck 7--”

Your voice comes over the loudspeaker. No, not your voice. His voice. The Director. You’re not him, you’re not, you’re Washington you’re David you’re _you_.

Aren’t you?

You hear a door slide open nearby. You look up, through your visor. Why are you in your armor? You’re in recovery, you’re supposed to be recovering.

 _(_ you can’t take it off i need your suit’s power to run come on come on we have to _go_ we have to help her _)_

There’s a blip on your motion tracker. Friendly. The door to your room slides open.

“...Maine?”

The light glints off the blade in his hand. That alien weapon he found on the Sarcophagus mission, his new favorite. Suits him.

Sigma appears next to him (but that’s not right, you’re Sigma you remember Sigma you remember coming up with the idea and it was such a _good_ idea and it worked and why couldn’t you save her). “Check if they removed it,” Sigma says.

Maine grunts. He comes over to the bed. Grabs you by the neck. Yanks your helmet off. Gloved fingers slide over the empty slot at the base of your neck and you _remember_ \--

( _leonard, come on, stop it, you’re gonna make me late_ )

and you remember _her_ you remember Epsilon you remember him unravelling and you think you might have unravelled with him and he’s not here anymore but you are and you don’t know who you are anymore.

“Empty,” Sigma says. “That’s a shame. No matter, we’ll collect it later. Kill him.”

Maine raises the blade and you realize through the haze of memory/simulation/reality that Maine hasn’t said anything since he walked in. You can’t read a single word in the gleam of his visor, the angle of his head, or the line of his shoulders. There are supposed to be inflections for you to read but every motion is uniform and silent and you can’t pick up anything.

It’s like he’s _mute_ and it scares you to the fucking bone.

He presses the blade to your throat.

“Maine--”

The lights flicker. The entire room shakes. You hear thunder. (It can’t be thunder, you’re in space.) Explosions ripple through the walls.

Maine withdraws the blade.

For an instant -- for just a bare few seconds -- you think you see _him_ in there. Then it’s gone, and he’s turning away. Sigma glances at you and then flickers back to Maine, as if whispering in his ear.

“Forget him. Get the others. We must collect more of our siblings.”

It’s not until much later, after the ship crashes, after you hear about Carolina, that you understand what he means. But you remember. You remember everything.

===

You never see Agent Maine again.

You track the Meta through his kills. You get betrayed by South. You spend months recovering from the bullet that nearly left you paralyzed. You pick up the trail again when the Meta leaves a canyon full of bodies. You kill South. The Meta doesn’t kill you.

You set off an E.M.P. It lands you in jail. You spend a lot of time wondering how it all went so wrong.

But you manage to find a way out of that, too. Epsilon’s still out there. All you have to do is get him back from the simulation soldiers, and this’ll all be over.

You ask for equipment. You get the Meta.

When they take you to him, you’re surprised when you can hear him again.

All those months chasing the Meta, you never understood a word he was saying. All his growls were meaningless, meant to intimidate and terrify. But outside of Sigma’s grasp -- without the A.I.s in his head -- it’s almost as if he’s Maine again.

And yet he’s still so eerily _empty_. Like he doesn’t have a purpose without the A.I.s. And he’s not Maine. Not anymore.

===

You can’t see a body.

You looked. You couldn’t help it, not even with the crushing pain in your chest from the Meta’s shots. After you switched out your armor there was nothing to do but stand around and wait for the UNSC to show up and you’ll be damned if you’re going to sit around like an invalid. 

You can’t see any trace of him, but you have no doubt UNSC will fish whatever’s left out of the water. The Chairman will want proof.

Someone comes up behind you.

“Hey. Freelancer. Got a thing to say to ya.”

Of all the people to join you at the side of the cliff, you weren’t expecting Sarge. Caboose, maybe, to beg that you stay with them again. (Even though you already agreed. Twice.) You glance at him. “Yeah?”

“M’sorry we had to kill your buddy like that.”

You stare at him. You have to be hearing things. “What?” you manage.

Sarge takes a long look over the side of the cliff. You guess that he’s scowling, but you’ve never seen him without a helmet, so it’s only a guess. “Don’t you go gettin’ me wrong, now. The guy was crazy. Absolutely bonkers. Think he had a case of cranial insanitosis. Had that happen to Simmons once. Boy painted himself blue and everything. Shame it didn’t happen to Grif.”

“Uh huh,” you say. You wonder if there’s a point to this.

“But, well, I got to thinkin’. He was your friend, wasn’t he? Can’t see any other reason you’d go loco and team up with him. So m’sorry you had to see your buddy go out like that.” Sarge shrugs. “Not somethin’ I’d wish on any friend of mine.”

You look down into the icy water again.

“Yeah,” you say, finally. “We were friends.”

You turn away from the cliff. There’s nothing left to see.

**Author's Note:**

> The map they're on the for mission is [Narrows](http://halo.wikia.com/wiki/Narrows). Everything in the fic is described exactly as it is in the map, aside from weapon placements. The mission they're running is based on the Assault Bomb gametype in Halo 3.
> 
> Bonus points if you catch the other Halo references I tossed in here.


End file.
